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your own?’ ‘Ah! if you’d mak’
‘em!’ says I, sharp like. ‘I
would if you’d ax me, Martin,’ says she.
An’ so we was married, Peter, an’ as you
see, theer was a Providence in it, for, if the first
one ’adn’t married some ’un else,
an’ the second ‘adn’t died, I might
ha’ married one o’ they, an’ repented
it all my days, for I were young then, an’ fulish,
Peter, fulish.” So saying, the Ancient
rose, sighing, and knocked the ashes from his pipe.

“Talkin’ ’bout Prue,” said
he, taking up his hat and removing his snuff-box therefrom
ere he set it upon his head, “talkin’ ’bout
Prue,” he repeated, with a pinch of snuff at
his nostrils.

“Well?” The word seemed shot out of George
involuntarily.

“Talkin’ ’bout Prue,” said
the Ancient again, glancing at each of us in turn,
“theer was some folks as used to think she were
sweet on Jarge theer, but I, bein’ ’er
lawful gran’feyther knowed different—­didn’t
I, Jarge?”

“Ay,” nodded the smith.

“Many’s the time I’ve said to you
a-sittin’ in this very corner, ‘Jarge,’
I’ve said, ’mark my words, Jarge—­if
ever my Prue does marry some’un—­which
she will—­that there some ‘un won’t
be you.’ Them be my very words, bean’t
they, Jarge?”

“Your very words, Gaffer,” nodded George.

“Well then,” continued the old man, “‘ere’s
what I was a-comin’ to—­Prue ‘s
been an’ fell in love wi’ some ’un
at last.”

Black George’s pipe shivered to fragments on
the floor, and as he leaned forward I saw that his
great hands were tightly clenched.

“Gaffer,” said he, in a strangled voice,
“what do ’ee mean?”

“I means what I says, Jarge.”

“How do ’ee know?”

“Bean’t I the lass’s gran’feyther?”

“Be ye sure, Gaffer—­quite sure?”

“Ay—­sartin sure—­twice
this week, an’ once the week afore she forgot
to put any salt in the soup—­an’ that
speaks wollums, Jarge, wollums!” Here, having
replaced his snuff-box, the Ancient put on his hat,
nodded, and bobbled away. As for Black George,
he sat there, staring blindly before him long after
the tapping of the Ancient’s stick had died
away, nor did he heed me when I spoke, wherefore I
laid my hand upon his shoulder.

“Come, George,” said I, “another
hour, and the screen will be finished.”
He started, and, drawing from my hand, looked up at
me very strangely.

“No, Peter,” he mumbled, “I aren’t
a-goin’ to work no more tonight,” and
as he spoke he rose to his feet.

“What—­are you going?” said
I, as be crossed to the door.

“Ay, I’m a-goin’.” Now,
as he went towards his cottage, I saw him reel, and
stagger, like a drunken man.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH WE DRAW YET NEARER TO THE END OF THIS FIRST BOOK

It is not my intention to chronicle all those minor
happenings that befell me, now or afterward, lest
this history prove wearisome to the reader (on the
which head I begin to entertain grave doubts already).
Suffice it then that as the days grew into weeks,
and the weeks into months, by perseverance I became
reasonably expert at my trade, so that, some two months
after my meeting with Black George, I could shoe a
horse with any smith in the country.